Dark Tapestry

by Elaine Cunningham

  Strangely enough, most of the elves I've met would probably be insulted by this news.

  As the magistrate's men dragged the condemned elf to his feet, a shock of recognition jolted through me. I knew him. He was a merchant who traded with the elves of the Mwangi Expanse throughout my childhood.

  "What is his crime?" I asked my new acquaintance.

  The man spat again. "He killed a friend of mine. Poison."

  "Yucami blossoms?"

  His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. "How did you know?"

  This required no great feat of divination on my part. Yucami grew in the Mwangi jungles. Burning a very small amount of dried flowers in a censor cleared the lungs and drove off fever. But some humans had taken to drinking the potent smoke directly from small pipes. The result was extreme euphoria, occasionally followed by death. Few elves would dare sell the herb to humans for fear of this very result.

  "Did your friend purchase the yucami?"

  The man sent me a quick, sidelong glance. "The elf cheated him," he said defensively. "He charged too much for his medicines. My friend only took enough to balance the scales. The yucami was poisoned. The water wraiths prove this to be so."

  A familiar howl cut through the crowd, saving me from the urge to point out the fallacies in this argument. The time of prophecy and divination was past, but people devised new ways to avoid thinking and they did not thank you for challenging them. Besides, I had more important matters to attend. Ratsheek, my oath-bound friend and longtime enemy, was about to answer for her many crimes.

  I pushed through the crowd toward the dais as three sweating, red-faced men dragged a cloaked and hooded figure up the stairs to the platform—one of the hyenafolk, if the exposed feet, tipped with claws and covered with sand-colored fur, were any indication. Even with her ankles hobbled with a short chain and her hands bound, the hyena-woman put up an impressive resistance.

  The crowd hummed with excitement. Wagers flew and markers changed hands as the executioners wrestled the cursing, struggling prisoner into the dunking stool. When she was secured, the magistrate whisked off the hood with a theatrical flourish. At this signal, the crowd quieted. The magistrate recited Ratsheek's crimes, a lengthy list that nonetheless omitted most of her truly interesting offenses.

  Once I sorted through the lies and dramatic flourishes, it came down to this: Ratsheek had been caught spending more money than she could explain to her tribe. From there, it was easy enough to figure out what had brought her to the dunking stool. I had recently escaped from Ratsheek's band of hyenafolk slavers in Katapesh, only to be unjustly accused of robbing and killing an extremely wealthy woman on the island of Chiron. If word of my supposed crime reached the slavers, they would almost certainly assume Ratsheek had set me free for a share of the stolen money. To make up for the theft of their property—that would be me—the slavers sold Ratsheek to the magistrate's men.

  Once the charges had been read, the magistrate gestured to one of his men. The servant pulled a long, curved knife from his sash and sliced through the ties securing the hyena-woman's cloak. Two more men dragged the tattered garment away.

  A sharp bark of laughter escaped me. For the water wraiths' convenience, Ratsheek had been shaved from neck to ankle.

  Her head snapped toward me and her gaze found mine. For a moment she went very still, and the malevolence in her eyes was nearly a living thing. Several people stepped out of the path of it before they realized what they were doing.

  Ratsheek's hairless chest swelled as she drew in air to cry out some sort of accusation against me. But the magistrate's staff came down, and her shout was swallowed by water as the dunking stool plunged into the pool.

  Immediately I reached out to the water wraiths, none too hopeful I'd be able to connect with them in time. But they were creatures of water, and their feral minds swam comfortably against the currents of my own. Two of them, in particular, seemed receptive to the image I sent their way, the unusual pattern and play of color—

  The frantic pounding of the staff against the dais shattered my communion with the color-changing lizards.

  "Get her out. Get her out!" shrieked the magistrate, nearly dancing with impatience and terror.

  His men frantically worked the cranks and ropes, and Ratsheek shot out of the water like a leaping dolphin. Two water wraiths clung to her shoulders, their long tails draped over her shaved chest.

  A deep, stunned silence fell over the market crowd.

  "When your whole justice system is a lizard, something is very wrong."

  The water wraiths had taken on a pattern of color, a sunset-to-midnight sweep that moved from rose and gold at the tails to twilight purple torsos to heads the black of a night sky. I'd taken a chance that the people of Ziloth would recognize the pattern of the Night Heralds' robes. The look of shock frozen onto dozens of faces indicated that they did.

  I tucked this information away for further consideration as I pushed my way up to the dais. The magistrate's servants were falling over each other in their eagerness to free Ratsheek and send her off to her supposed masters. They stopped babbling apologies when I climbed the stairs to the dais.

  I shook out the sand-colored wrap I'd bought for the trek through the Brazen Peaks and held it out to Ratsheek.

  "Your cloak, my lady," I said in deferential tones. Generally speaking, it is better to be thought a servant to evil folk than someone who can wield her own share of dark power. Few heroes feel compelled to challenge a mere servant, and the craven leave you alone for fear of inconveniencing your masters.

  The hyena-woman's eyes narrowed in speculation, but she quickly donned both the cloak and the role. The cloak swirled around her as she spun and flowed dramatically behind as she stalked through the swiftly parting crowd. I fell in meekly, swallowing a smile at her grand performance.

  We didn't speak until we'd left Ziloth by the northern gate and were well beyond the ears of the watching guards.

  "You saved my life," she said as she strode northward, her voice expressionless and her eyes forward. "If this has something to do with that oath we swore—"

  "Ratsheek." The smile in my voice brought her to a stop. "You are speaking to Channa Ti."

  "Right." She resumed walking. "In that case, what do you want?"

  "I need to get to Sothis."

  "So? Take passage on a ship."

  "Ordinarily I would, but I have to keep away from

  the ports."

  The hyena-woman cut her gaze in my direction, and her lips peeled away from her teeth in a canine sneer. "Banned from the seas, water witch? What did you do now?"

  "I stand accused of murder. Falsely accused."

  Ratsheek waved away that distinction as irrelevant. "Anyone I know?"

  "Do you know anyone on Chiron?"

  Understanding swept over her face, closely followed by a swift, short blaze of wrath. She eyed me thoughtfully, a mixture of incredulity and respect in her black eyes.

  That told me several important things. First, Ratsheek had come to the same conclusion as I had about her tribe's betrayal. Second, she knew about the Night Heralds and she knew they had a presence in Chiron. She assumed I had aligned myself with them, which surprised her but also earned her approval. And since Ratsheek approved of profit about all else, I surmised that she expected to do very well on this venture.

  I named a generous sum. "I will pay you this now, and twice that when we cross the Brazen Peaks. The village of Posdam is a day's walk beyond the mountains. A moneylender there is holding funds for me."

  Ratsheek responded with laughter—a short, bitter burst of staccato yips. "When people call me a bitch, that is not an insult but a statement of fact. When I call you a bitch—"

  "That is both insult and fact," I broke in impatiently. "Yes, I know you can't safely enter your
tribe's territory, any more than I can."

  "My punishment for saving you from slavery," she snarled.

  I didn't bother to respond. The last time I crossed the Brazen Peaks, Ratsheek led the band of hyenafolk that attacked the treasure hunters I was guiding. The raiders killed them all and brought me to the slave markets of Katapesh. Yes, Ratsheek had arranged my escape, but only so she could pocket a generous fee from my current employer rather than share my slave price with her fellow hyenafolk. And her tribe, tired of her self-serving ways, had not been forgiving.

  "You're a rogue," I said calmly. "Condemned to live and die alone, without clan or tribe."

  "Bitch."

  "We've covered that. Despite all, you could find a new tribe, one that would revere you as a goddess."

  Ratsheek sent a cautious glance my way. "Go on."

  "You've heard of the pugwampis?"

  She spun toward me and slammed her fist into my jaw, rocking my head painfully to one side and sending me staggering back a step or two. I shook away the stars careening around the edges of my vision and ducked under her second, wilder swing.

  "You would have me join a tribe of jackal rats?" she growled.

  "They're intelligent creatures," I said as I backed away, both hands lifted in a conciliatory gesture.

  "They're hideous, hairless, thieving little monsters!"

  Other than "little," this description fit Ratsheek admirably. For a moment I was tempted to twitch aside the folds of her cloak to underscore this point. The raw fury on her face suggested this would be an unwise plan.

  "The pugwampis control tunnels that run under the Brazen Peaks. They build cities. They create art."

  Ratsheek lowered her fists. "Art?"

  "Of a sort. And they are, as you pointed out, thieves. I won't argue that their lairs rival dragons' hoards, but they do very well."

  She considered this. "You've discovered these underground lairs?"

  I shrugged modestly. Actually, this "discovery" had been entirely accidental. I'd followed an old map into a forgotten tunnel system under the Brazen Peaks. Unfortunately, jackal rats had claimed most of those tunnels since the map's creation.

  "If you know the way, why do you need me?"

  A fair question, but one I'd hoped to avoid. "The tunnel follows an underground river that passes through a cavern in which the pugwampi swarm has built a city. I could get through the cavern in animal form, but I can only call upon that magic so often."

  "And you've spent that particular coin today."

  I nodded. I'd used up my daily allotment of shape-shifting magic in the early morning hours to escape from the Night Herald's grotto. I disliked admitting this or any other weakness to Ratsheek. The speculative expression on her face did little for my peace of mind.

  "So why not wait until tomorrow?"

  Why? Because I was wanted for murder, because I had just left a town where elves were suspect and half-elves were easy prey, because I was competing with an imp for a prize of unknown power and importance. Oh, and because the real Night Heralds would soon hear the details of my little rescue.

  "Why?" I echoed. "Because you need my help. Because I wish to honor our oath of aid and friendship."

  Ratsheek snorted. "If you want to keep your reasons to yourself, just say so."

  We walked in silence into the foothills. At my direction, Ratsheek brushed the sand away from the base of a steep rock butte. A broad canine grin stretched her muzzle as her fingers found the edges of the stone doorway.

  Working together, we edged it aside and crawled into the low-ceilinged tunnel. On hands and knees, we crawled for what seemed like hours. I was grateful when the sun set, and for more than one reason.

  Some druids can sense the turning of the world, the rise and set of the sun and moon. I am not among them, but I can feel the rising tide of my own druidic powers. Most people greet the new day at dawn. In my tradition, a new day began at sunset.

  "Too dark," muttered Ratsheek behind me, a note of panic skirting the edges of her voice. "Too small."

  "It opens up when we get to the river. There're glowing fungi in plenty there. You won't have any problem seeing."

  "Are you sure you're going the right way?" she complained.

  I stopped crawling and let Ratsheek close the distance between us. When I deemed the moment right, I kicked straight back. My boot connected solidly with the hyena-woman's snout.

  When she'd stopped cursing me, I observed, "And what would you have done, had I questioned your sense of smell?"

  A long moment of silence followed. "Good point," she said grudgingly.

  We continued on our way. The unmistakable sound of water running over stone lent new energy to Ratsheek and had her nipping at my heels, literally and painfully. I picked up the pace, and soon we rolled from the tunnel and rose gratefully to our feet.

  As I stretched out my cramped muscles, Ratsheek studied the rough rock walls, her black eyes alight with greed.

  "There's no gold in these mountains, but that mica glitters brightly enough to part many a fool from his money. Perhaps the pugwampis can be taught mining. Can they use tools?"

  "In a few moments, you can judge that for yourself."

  The river was narrow, little more than a creek, but its song grew louder as we followed the path around a sharp bend. Ahead, the water fell in a steep, narrow spill. The lichen here glowed an eerie green, and the restless mists swirling around the lichen-clad rocks resembled verdant ghosts.

  "You can always trust one of the hyenafolk—to do exactly as she pleases."

  This strange beauty was utterly lost on Ratsheek. Her gaze remained fixed on the stone carvings lining the walls, a frieze that depicted life-sized hyenafolk in fierce battle. The carvings were primitive and time had worn away some of the finer detail, but I'd seen less impressive sculpture in the collections of princes.

  "The pugwampis carved these?" Ratsheek marveled, tracing a stone muzzle with one claw. She snatched a smaller figure out of a stone niche. "And these?"

  I nodded. "I'd leave that where it is, at least for the time being. That might be an object of veneration."

  She set down the idol. "Well then," she said brightly. "The sooner I see you through this warren of tunnels, the sooner I can collect my fee and start rebuilding my fortune."

  There was something in her tone I mistrusted, but I needed her to get through the pugwampis. I started down the rough stairs carved into the steeply descending path, wet from the waterfall's spray. We made our way to the bottom, where the falls ended in a deep pool. The river disappeared there, winding down into many narrow passages. These trickles of water converged under the cavern floor, and reemerged as a deeper, swifter stream on the far side of the cavern.

  The cavern combined meeting place, fest hall, armory, and temple. Some of the alcoves chipped into the walls held collections of weapons, others were larders of game: burrowing animals such as hares and ground squirrels, pale fish pulled from the underground river. The stone floor sloped down toward a bloodstained dolmen, over which presided the statue of a snarling hyena-man. Piles of skulls, many of which appeared to be human, decorated the pugwampi temple. Beyond, a bridge of skulls led over the reemerging river.

  A quick, light skittering was my only warning. Before I could draw breath to give the alarm, the pugwampi swarm roiled out of a side tunnel beyond the falls and raced toward us.

  They moved like rats, unruly and disorganized, careening off each other and pushing two or three hapless creatures over the edge of the pool as they went. But they moved forward, and they moved fast.

  I have seldom seen more hideous creatures. Only a foot tall and boasting no more than a few stray tufts of hair, the pugwampis were gray-skinned and rat-tailed, and they resembled small misshapen hyenafolk. Like the hyenafolk, they ran on two po
werful hind legs. With their long-fingered hands they clutched knives nearly the length of their arms, and their dripping fangs and gleaming red eyes gave them the look of demonic lapdogs.

  Ratsheek's howl rang through the cavern and brought the swarm to a dead stop. She strode forward, putting herself between me and the pugwampis, then tossed back the hood of her cloak.

  "Oooooooh," murmured the swarm. I have never heard a sound that was at once so deeply reverent and so profoundly creepy.

  Their excitement grew when Ratsheek flipped the cape back over her shoulders, revealing her nearly hairless form. I did not need to understand their language to get the gist of their high-pitched chittering. One of the hyena-people come to their cavern was marvel enough, but this creature was like them. A gigantic pugwampi hero of legend, or a minor deity, or a great priestess—

  Ratsheek seized me and flung me over her shoulder. She strode down toward the dolmen altar.

  "Definitely a priestess," I murmured.

  "One who brings her own sacrifice," she added smugly.

  I saw little sense in struggling, not with a small army of devout, knife-wielding pugwampis trailing behind.

  "There's no sense, I suppose, in reminding you that you gave your word to see me through to the other side."

  "None whatsoever," Ratsheek agreed cheerfully. "Vows are for children and fools, and neither of us are children."

  When we reached the other side of the cavern, Ratsheek climbed the dolmen and flung me down onto the capstone. The pugwampis encircled the altar, again a roiling rat-swarm. They jostled each other, their weapons held high as they vied for the honor of lending the sacrificial knife.

  Ratsheek knelt at the dolmen's edge and reached down to accept a blade.

  I seized the moment and changed.

  A water wraith the size and weight of a tall half-elf is a powerful, powerful creature. One swat of my tail was enough to send Ratsheek pitching into the crowd of her followers, and onto their upraised blades.